Gambling Hearts Win More Than Money
by Butterfliedd
Summary: After a rather brutal fist fight, Oliver and Marcus have landed themselves in detention. Three months' worth of it. With each other. And when you add in a secret admirer, aspiring match-makers, and a possesive Slytherin... Chaos ensues. m/o.
1. Chapter One

**Gambling Hearts Win More Than Money**

-- chapter one. --

-- written by: butterfliedd

-- summary: after a rather brutal fist fight, oliver and marcus have landed themselves in detention. three months' worth of it. with each other. and when you add in a secret admirer, aspiring match-makers, and a possesive slytherin... chaos ensues.

-- disclaimer: harry potter, its characters, and the general potterverse all belong to a certain ms. rowling. not me.

-x-

What happens in the Quidditch pitch stays in the Quidditch pitch.

That maxim, once said about Vegas, holds true. 24/7 wedding chapels, made famous by certain couples eloping there then divorcing shortly thereafter- an endless supply of clubs open to the over-21 and the 'well, you look old' enough age group- and the gambling all stay there, as slithering snake-like secrets.

Gambling is normally frowned upon, but there's more than one type of gambling. There's gambling with money, played in dark corners where the only light comes from the pale reflection of a slot screen, and even though you started with a few hundred dollars, there's only a few dollars now- but no need to worry, you can make it up if you just win the next one, or the next one, or the next one. Gambling with your life- taking a jump off the nearest building with a parachute (the fact that you don't know how it works just adds to the rush) and falling through space and air, feeling that perfect perfect rush everywhere. When the parachute doesn't work, and suddenly you realize that the ground is much more closer than it was a few seconds ago, and you know that yes, you're going to _die_- the rush just explodes. I suppose it would be a wonderful feeling, but unfortunately I haven't had the experience to converse with someone who has felt that incredible rush.

Then as any high school teenage girl will know, there is gambling of the heart, and that is the most dangerous of all. Forget gambling away your money until all you have left is scratched-off lottery cards, curling in the corner of your room. Forget gambling away your life with drugs, taking just a little bit more each time because you really really need it and it's the last time, you _swear,_ until finally you pass out and lay there for hours (then, by the time anyone comes by, you're less than a vegetable anyhow). Even forget gambling away your life, because as far as any fragile teenager is concerned, the breaking of the heart is far worse than the breaking of bones.

It's the same wherever you go. In Muggle schools, people gamble with their heart, then their life. Even in Hogwarts and other magical schools, students will gamble with their heart and if the answer doesn't suit them, most then follow with a healthy dose of alcohol. Sometimes, they will gamble with their heart and a large neon sign will jump up and announce that yes, the gamble has paid off and they have won the lottery, the big prize: true love! As rare as it is, it happens.

As far as the Quidditch pitch and Vegas analogy, perhaps we should back up; around three months ago to inform of the Quidditch pitch history. There, like in Vegas, loves were confessed, the juiciest one being from a girl to a boy- a flaming homo boy. Innumerable secrets were shared as well. And, as they tend to do, students fought. Two particular captains, the highlight of the story, fought harder than ever before.

-x-

"You fucker!"

"Me? You're the ass who cheated!"

"Take a look in the mirror, if it doesn't break first!" Marcus Flint was rarely this articulate. His usual manner of speech was punctuated with snarls and throaty growls, which had many of his companions thinking of a fierce mountain lion, prowling around and roaring to protect his territory. However, he decided that Wood deserved some special treatment.

"Hah! That's a funny thing to say, coming from a troll like you!"

"At least I'm not a scrawny little pipsqueak like you. I could squash you with my thumb!"

"You could, could you? I'd love to see you try!" Oliver Wood screamed the last bit at him, putting the final nail in his coffin, now only needing a hammer. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular (anything but a pipsqueak) - but Flint was tall_er_, _more_ broad-shouldered, and _much more_ muscular. "I could take you any--"

The sound of Oliver nailing his coffin shut was loud and sudden. (It just _sounded_ like a fist hitting his face.) Before Oliver had time to react- say, getting his wand out- Oliver had another fist flying at him and his crooked nose. It rather felt like he had walked into a wall, as if Oliver had sprinted as fast as he could into a wall that was running as fast as _it _could into him. A red-hot pain exploded right behind his forehead, and all his previous thoughts, blood-red, leaked out his nose. The only thing that mattered now was getting Marcus back. Time meant nothing, reasons were blown away like sand in the wind, and pain was soon dulled to nothing more than a tinny voice in his head. It seemed like a cheerleader, actually, cheering him on and telling him to beathimbeathimbeathim downdowndown youcandoit,Oliver!

His hands formed into fists and flew at Flint in a fire of payback. Feet and fists were flying at both captains, and even they, in the midst of their animalistic brawl, could barely tell whose was whose. Marcus was knee'd in the groin, Oliver was kicked in his stomach, he was punched, bit and nearly strangled, and he was smacked, tackled and pummeled. Both were broken and far beyond bruised. No one was quite sure Madam Hooch stepped in- was it before the sickening crack of a rib, or after the horrible snap of an ankle?- but everyone remembered what happened when she did. A spell was screamed, and suddenly the two were flown backward, ten feet apart from each other. They would have scrambled back up and attacked each other again, had she not intervened.

"_What _in Merlin's name are you two doing? Fighting like Muggles?" She shrieked, towering above the two bodies on their backs and glaring ferociously. Later, Oliver would remember that she looked like a fierce bird of prey about to peck him and devour his innards, with her hands on her hips looking like wings and her eyes looking _exactly _like a hawk's. It seemed like that to Marcus too, although he'd hotly deny it. "No- Muggles would be able to _control_ themselves! You are both fighting like _animals_! Stupid, beastly, stupid _animals_!"

"But he--"

"No! No buts, no excuses, nothing! Go up to your Heads of Houses, immediately." She ordered sharply, with a wave of her wing- er, arm.

"Ma'am, they're hurt," A timid female voice from the crowd began shakily. "They need to go to the Hospital Wing. I can spell them up there."

"Well- well, then the Hospital Wing. But _straight after_ that, you two are to report to your Heads. I don't have the capacity to deal with punishments for animals." Under her breath, she muttered something about teenagers' damn hormones.

Oliver and Marcus somehow got up to the Hospital Wing, as a mix of magic and men helped them up the stairs. Madam Pomfrey poked and prodded the two, earning far too many 'Ow- that hurts!' from one boy and 'You deserve it, pipsqueak/troll' from the other. Madam Pomfrey, having dealt with fighting boys before, merely rapped them on their head when this occurred, earning another 'Ow!' They slept for a night, resting and preparing for the punishment to come. After they were stitched up, she stood before the two, disappointment and anger clear in her fiery eyes.

"I want to say so many things to you _dear boys_-" (She could speak surprisingly well through gritted teeth)- "But thankfully, Professors McGonagall and Snape are on their way here. They are to dole out the punishments, not I." She surveyed the damage- Marcus had a bandaged shoulder and arm, while Oliver had a bandaged chest and his left arm in a sling. Both of them were peppered with deep bruises, along with injuries to the jaw. (That certainly explained the lack of protests). She couldn't help noticing that both of them had bruises on their thighs and abdomen especially. Although there was no permanent damage, surprisingly, neither was allowed on a broom for three weeks.

"If you two can behave for a few minutes, I have to check on another patient of mine," She said, and as she shuffled away she shot a glare towards them. This, however, did nothing to stop the two captains.

"You jackass. I cannot believe you'd stoop so low!" Oliver hissed. He was doing his best to whisper- not only because Pomfrey wasn't very far away, but also because it hurt to talk. Damn, Flint could throw a punch.

"How did I do anything? You're just sorry because you lost."

"You stole our playbook! You used my maneuvers, my strategies to win the game that should've been _ours_. And, as if that didn't give you enough of an edge, Alicia was out because she was 'sick'." Oliver said, completing his accusation with air-quotes around 'sick'. (He did it quite well, considering he could only use one hand.)

"Why would we need to steal your shitty playbook? I think we can get our own maneuvers- some that don't suck. And yeah, she was sick. What, you think we gave her some spell flu?" He grunted. Merlin, someone was quick to make up excuses. That was certainly one of Wood's more creative ones, though. He normally stuck to 'Cheap shot!' or just insulting Flint.

"You didn't answer the question!" Oliver snapped, silently cursing the Slytherin. He'd curse him out loud, but he already knew how Flint fought, and Oliver preferred to stay out of the Hospital Wing. "Did you or did you not steal our playbook? Did you or did you not _cheat_, like the scummy snake you are?" He paused, waiting to give Flint a chance to lie (again).

"Well, it seems that you two have relatively behaved," Pomfrey said, returning from the other bed where a hexed second-year was lying, purple skin and all. Poor thing, he was always getting bullied. She couldn't help smiling and being optimistic (about the two captains, not the hexed second-year). Perhaps they had already made up! The thought made her smile even as Marcus discreetly shot Oliver the finger, and as he returned it.

A knock on the door alerted the three to a visitor. Madam Pomfrey shot another look at them, then shuffled quickly to answer it. She really hoped it wasn't another of Oliver's fangirls, gushing about his bravery to tackle that obnoxious troll. Marcus seemed to be getting jealous, perhaps because he had no fangirls of his own, and he had nearly pummeled the last girl because she was 'so happy' that someone 'finally got that bully'. Evidently, she was unaware that Flint was in the next bed. It also seemed that Oliver didn't appreciate them very much, unless it was that seventh-year Gryffindor.

Thankfully or unfortunately, depending on how you saw it, the Gryffindor and Slytherin Head of House entered, looking altogether too calm. Snape looked at the two boys, who seemed pathetically beaten as they dripped blood on the previously pristine white sheets.

"As you know, both of us are extremely disappointed in you boys," He began slowly, taking time to glower at Flint and Wood separately. He did seem to find pleasure in this. Perhaps some punny punishment was coming? "But as disgusted as we are with your behavior, we have come to a decision regarding your punishment. Although our first agreement was a temporary ban on your Quidditch--"

"No!" Flint and Wood yelped simultaneously, jaw injuries be damned.

"IF you'd let me finish," Snape continued, silencing the captains with a curl of his lip and a roll of his dark eyes, "That, as I was saying, was our first agreement. We have since come to a second commitment." He paused and looked at Professor McGonagall pointedly.

"Oh, yes," She continued. "Our decision was not as drastic as the first, and I'm sure you will both agree this is appropriate. Three months of detention with our caretaker, Argus Filch, is the bare minimum. We'll not hesitate to add weeks, and something tells me that we'll have to." She glanced at them, daring one to protest.

"Three months?" Oliver's injured jaw dropped in shock and injustice, and he scrambled up from his lying position to gape at his Head of House. "Professor, I simply can't do that. Exams are coming up- and more importantly, Quidditch! The season's just started--"

"Oh, shut up, Wood. You can't even get on a broom for weeks, and your pathetic excuse for a team will suck with or without you." Marcus growled, then turned to Snape. "And that's completely unfair! There's no way in hell I'm serving that. I only got a month for shoving Montague down the toilet, so why do I get double that for taking Wood down a notch?" He barked.

"First, that's triple." Professor McGonagall spoke loudly to be heard over Oliver's snap back (something about 'Then why have we beaten you every game, Flint?'). Really, she thoroughly agreed with Madam Hooch. Damn those teenager hormones.

"And that does remind me. The punishment for avoiding your punishment, i.e. skipping detention, as one of our company tends to do, is a six-month absence from Quidditch." Correctly predicting their outbursts, she barreled on, albeit in a louder voice. "The next person to speak gets a permanent absence!" She snapped, tiring of their constant bickering. They were like bickering children. "And there's one more catch- for every day of your detention, the two of you must be together. You two will get along even if it kills you- but at this rate, it'll kill us."

-x-

Author's Note: I'd really appreciate feedback on this. (: It's my first 'serious' fic, I suppose, and I'd love to know what you love/hate/absolutely despise about it.


	2. Chapter Two

**Gambling Hearts Win More Than Money**

-- chapter two. --

-- written by: butterfliedd

-- summary: after a rather brutal fist fight, oliver and marcus have landed themselves in detention. three months' worth of it. with each other. and when you add in a secret admirer, aspiring match-makers, and a possesive slytherin... chaos ensues.

-- disclaimer: harry potter, its characters, and the general potterverse all belong to a certain ms. rowling. not me.

-x-

"This is completely, in every way, unjust!" Katie Bell shrieked. She was a pretty fifth-year, with long blond hair the color of fresh wheat that fell to her shoulder blades in stick-straight strands. Her dark blue eyes narrowed, and her rather large nose crinkled up, like it always did when she was angry. Her freckles seemed to dance on her tan skin as she bitched to Oliver. It seemed to him that he knew exactly how unfair it was, considering he was the one with the punishment, and that he really didn't need her reminding him.

His left arm was in a sling, for Merlin's sake!

"That dumb troll is going to eat you alive. You two will never get along- does she not realize that? I mean, _you'll_ try. You'll be nice and sweet, and just be your normal lovable self, but Flint will just glare at you and stomp on you and tear you apart..."

He loved Katie, he really did. They had been best friends for ages, ever since she walked up to him and demanded to be put on the Gryffindor team, because she was a _damn good_ Chaser and hell, she _deserved_ it. (This was before Wood was even Captain). She was cute and funny and so much fun, most of the time.

Right now was not one of those times. Oliver gazed into the fire, blocking out her words until he could only hear the crackling of burning firewood. The fire was burning exceptionally bright today, he noted. Red, yellow, orange, white and even blue all danced together, making heat hotter and hotter. There was a soft buzzing somewhere next to him that blocked his flame fantasies, but it got louder and louder until finally,

"Are you even _listening_?!" The bomb exploded. "I've been talking to you, you prat. I am trying to _help you_," She paused, leaving the Gryffindor boys lounging in the common room to agree that yes, she was beautiful when she was angry. "Do you want me to talk to McGonagall? I'm sure she was just going along with whatever Snape said- we can go talk to her and she'll definitely let you off..."

"Professor McGonagall does not just 'go along' with anyone," a bespectacled redhead added, walking through the portrait. He came over and sat next to Oliver on the puffy red couch. "Either way, Oliver broke the rules and has to pay the consequences. By the way, Katie, I think Leanne was looking for you."

"Leanne? What did she want?" Katie asked, rather impatiently. She was never very fond of Percy, especially after he had gone all 'prefect' on her and her last boyfriend after he caught them snogging. As if he and Penelope were as pure as the driven snow!

"I'm not sure, exactly. Something about her 'secret'... She was in the library last time I checked. You should go find her," He suggested.

"Well, can she wait? I'm helping Oliver."

"I don't know..." Percy glanced briefly at Oliver, who, behind her, was grimacing and mimicing being hung. Percy couldn't help smiling, and added, "Sorry, she insisted."

With a exaggerated sigh and a tilt of her head, Katie shrugged. "Sorry, Ol, can I go? Leanne apparently 'needs' me," She said, completing her statement with air quotes around 'needs'.

Oliver nodded heartily in reply, and she left the common room, complaining under her breath about needy friends. Percy glanced at her with his dark blue eyes, magnified by his thick glasses. His red hair, freckles, and shabby robes gave him away as a Weasley, but his glasses and pompous nature gave him away as a nerd. (Which was why he was in the library in the first place).

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Percy," Oliver said the moment she left. He mock-bowed to his best friend. "I'll never copy your Transfiguration essays ever again. I'll remember to save you a seat every morning for breakfast, and I swear that I'll never tell a soul about you and a certain Miss Clearwater."

He glanced up to see if his apology worked, and the Weasley cracked a small, but noticeable, smile. "I think that's adequate, Oliver. But learn to deal with your own problems, okay? I can't always rush up here and save you from 'the bitch', as you so kindly named her."

"Aye. Well, she's not _always_ a bitch though. Just when she's going on about me and Flint. That gets kinda annoying," Oliver said, nodding. He settled back on the couch, his broad shoulders finally comfortable.

He self-consciously ran his hand through his long sandy brown hair that fell just to his ears, then looked for a mirror to check out his reflection. His vanity overcame him and he glanced at the window, looking at the large green eyes flecked with yellow staring back at him. He had a light spattering of freckles along his square jaw, and a crooked nose that had been broken more than a few times.

"And please try to stay out of trouble. I'm a prefect, as you very well know, and I can't be hanging around troublemakers. What would people think?"

"Aye," Oliver said. He waited, hoping that Percy would have some germ of wisdom that he'd share with him, perhaps that McGonagall would do anything for an Acid Pop (as unlikely as it was). Instead, Percy pulled a very thick, very boring-looking book out of his robes and began to drown in its musty pages.

It looked like Oliver was on his own. He'd have to take a risk-- a gamble.

-x-

"Wait. Let me get this straight. You, being Marcus-No-One-Had-Better-Piss-Me-Off-Or-I'll-Fuck-Them-Up-Flint, fought Oliver-I'm-A-Right-Prick-With-An-Accent-Wood, and _lost_. Hah!"

"I didn't _lose_, he's the one in a sling you daft--" Marcus snapped, trying to get in at least half a sentence. Adrian was the most talkative one on the team, and usually that was at least mildly amusing. Right now, not so much.

"And now, to complete your lovely predicament, you've landed yourself in three months of detention. Flint, you are a complete git," Adrian concluded.

"Shut up, Pucey. No one cares about your bloody opinion."

"Oh? Then why'd you come here, looking for me?" Adrian grinned. He and Marcus were complete opposites, he noticed as he had many times before. Why on earth were they friends?

Adrian had long blond hair; Marcus had cropped dark brown hair. Adrian had blue eyes; Marcus had brown eyes. Adrian had a round, angelic face; Marcus had a square face that immediately reminded one of a troll. And, of course, the teeth. Adrian had perfectly white, perfectly straight, perfectly normal-sized teeth. Flint's teeth looked as if someone started a puzzle, then gave up halfway through and jammed the rest in the most random places, taking puzzle pieces from different sets as well.

And yet, they had been best friends ever since Adrian tripped him in first year and Marcus immediately beat him to a bloody pulp. Go figure.

"I came down here because Snape actually likes you," Marcus grunted. He really was horrible at this whole 'asking favors' thing. "So go and tell him that Wood's the one who deserves the detention, not me. I should be getting off scot-free, and if you talk to him about it then I will."

"Hah, scot-free. You know, since Wood's Scottish..." Adrian trailed off, sensing that no, Flint certainly did not know. "Snape doesn't like me. He just despises you, 'cause you're a git in his class," Adrian snorted, remembering the time when Marcus nearly exploded the entire room. "And what'll you do for me?"

"I won't kick you off the team. And as a bonus, I won't beat you senseless."

"Don't let anyone ever tell you're not a good bargainer, Flint. You work wonders with your words."

-x-

Later that night, two girls met to gossip about their day. Katie and Leanne -- best friends till the end. BFF's, with an enchanted best friends bracelet to prove it and everything. Funny how easily those cheap bracelets can break.

"You know, there was a famous quote once. 'Only through curiosity can we discover opportunities, and only by gambling can we take advantage of them.' I keep thinking of it whenever you come over," Leanne said idly, glancing at her friend to see if she would understand it. She hoped she would. Leanne hoped for everything: rainy days, sunny days, Quidditch games, Transfiguration classes... anywhere she'd see him. (But, she feared, the day would come when she would have to _talk_ to him -- and then the illusion of his perfection would be shattered.)

"What does that even mean? It sounds like something you'd make up. I don't think it's a quote at all."

"No, really, it is. It means that being curious pays off, because you learn things and 'discover opportunities'. The gambling part, that means that anything worth having or wanting is worth taking a risk for." Apparently, she didn't.

"Well, what does that have anything to do with anything?" Katie asked, becoming indignant and impatient all at once. Leanne took a deep breath before answering.

"I think you should tell him. Tell him you fancy him- tell him you're madly in love with him. Tell him, it's worth a risk--" She said quickly, hurriedly, as if her best friend of five years wouldn't hear unless she said it within a few seconds.

"I _don't_ like him_._ Merlin! Just lay off, okay?" Katie stood up, glaring and looking far too much like a cat. Her hands were on her hips and she hissed at her friend, "I don't fancy that stupid boy, and I cannot believe you said that."

"Then why are you leaving? It doesn't have to be signed. You can be his secret admirer. It's worth it. Only by gambling can we take advantage, you know!" She said the last part desperately, hoping that she would please please come back and that they would be friends again-- best friends till the end, like they were just a few moments ago.

There was a flutter of robes and a slam of the door, and Leanne sighed and flopped miserably on her bed.

"Stupid quotes. Stupid girl. I was trying to _help_, you know."

-x-

A/N: Yeah. Sorry for the blatant OOC-ness in this chapter. And I'm taking a lot of artistic license with Adrian, 'cause JK barely mentions him in the book. So if someone has an issue with that, sorry. (: I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas and happy holidays!

As always, reviews are much appreciated!


	3. Chapter Three

**Gambling Hearts Win More Than Money**

-- chapter three. --

-- written by: butterfliedd

-- summary: after a rather brutal fist fight, oliver and marcus have landed themselves in detention. three months' worth of it. with each other. and when you add in a secret admirer, aspiring match-makers, and a possesive slytherin... chaos ensues.

-- disclaimer: harry potter, its characters, and the general potterverse all belong to a certain ms. rowling. not me.

-x-

"So did he say yes?"

"Well," Adrian Pucey paused for a long moment. He briefly considered the options he had here. He could tell his best friend of five years that no, he hadn't done one of the only favors Marcus had ever asked of him. Or he could tell Marcus that he had taken out a bet on how long it would be before one of the captains ended up in St. Mungo's.

"Well, what?" Marcus Flint snarled, his fist slamming down on the table. He was never one to control his temper, and even with a plate of food in front of him he wasn't satsified.

"He said no," Adrian said delicately, stabbing an egg with his fork. "Bad break, I know, but he just can't forget all those cauldrons you've ruined."

Marcus growled and tore into his fourth biscuit. "I wasn't the only one, you know. You're burned some too."

"Right. But Snape likes me," He grinned, the kind of grin that made girls swoon and compose sappy sonnets. It was the kind of grin that Marcus wished he had, compared to his own grimace that dissolved a crowd.

"Fuck you, Pucey."

"You know you want to," Adrian smirked. "So have you decided how you're gonna handle this?" He asked, subtly trying to get a feel if he'd win the bet or not. Fifteen Galleons was a lot to put on Flint's temper.

"I don't want to think about it."

"You never want to think about anything."

"Fuck you, Pucey. What do you want me to say? I'll beat him to a bloody pulp the second I see him?"

"Maybe," He commented, then glanced up. "Speak of the devil. There's Wood now."

Marcus looked up from his plate of dead animals to see a harried-looking Oliver stumble through the doors, followed quickly by Katie and Percy. Oliver still had his arm in a sling, Marcus noticed with a sick satisfaction. Oliver glanced around for a few seconds before settling into his usual seat. His eyes met Marcus' across a crowded room, and for a second, they held their breath and something passed between them.

Then Marcus snarled at Oliver, who glared back. And things were back to normal.

"Hey, look at his arm. He looks like he got attacked by a beast."

"Pucey, if you don't shut your bloody mouth, one day you'll get attacked by a beast."

-x-

After an impossibly hard Charms lesson and spending fifty-eight minutes on a single syllable (in_can_to versus incan_to_), Oliver dragged himself down to the dungeons for his first of many detentions. He pushed open the door to the trophy room, seeing an irritated Argus Filch but no Flint.

Figured. Marcus had never been on time for anything in his life, so why would he start now?

"Wood, eh?" Filch began, a scowl etched on his face. He continued on without waiting for Oliver to answer. "You'll be cleaning these. No magic. When Flint comes, tell him. If he doesn't, then you'll pick up the slack."

"Sir, I'm not su--"

"Start. I'll be back later." Filch spoke as tersely as possible. Apparently he didn't want to be there either. He shoved a rather dirty rag and a bucket towards Oliver and with a mutter of "... better be done mumblemumble shackles and proper punishments mumblemumble no later than nine ..." He spoke so low it was nearly impossible to decipher whole sentences. The best Oliver could hope for was understanding a few words.

A sigh escaped from his lips and Oliver glanced around at the task that faced him. Some trophy cabinets were slathered in dust -- not a good sign. It had probably been ages since someone had last cleaned them. Just his luck that he had to 'pick up the slack', as Filch so eloquently stated.

Cursing Slytherins and Squibs, Oliver knelt down and pulled out a rag. It was going to be a long night.

What seemed like thousands of trophies (but was only forty) later, Marcus Flint burst through the door. He had a plethora of excuses all ready for Filch -- homework, Quidditch practice, had to clean my sock drawer -- but when he saw only Oliver there, he didn't bother.

"Wood," He sneered. "What are we doing?"

"Cleaning the trophies, no magic. Filch'll be back soon though." Oliver glanced up briefly to look the taller male straight in the eyes. "Your rag and bucket are over there." He recited the mantra Percy gave him: _Don't do something you'll regret. He's not worth it. _

"The whole room? Damn." Marcus pulled out a chair and nonchalantly sat down next to his bucket, barely glancing at it. "You'd better get started then."

"_What_?" Oliver snarled through clenched teeth and a clenched fist. _Don't do something you'll regret_, he repeated. _He's not worth it. _Merlin knew what Percy would to do him if Oliver got in trouble again. He could just imagine the lecture, laced with "Me -- a prefect! Best friends with a _delinquet_!"

"I said, you'd better get started," He leaned slightly forward in his chair, placing an elbow on his knee and smirking as only he could.

Oliver bit his bottom lip savagely, anything to stop from tackling Marcus and beating him bloody. He instead poured his energy into making sure the Gryffindor House Cup he was polishing was as shiny as possible. He was quiet when he said, "You can't just _sit_ there."

"And who says I can't?"

The basic law of human ethics, Percy would have said. Equal rights, Katie would have snapped. Alicia wouldn't have said anything, which was the smart thing to do. Oliver, of course, was his own person and said what he wanted to.

But he really should've listened to Alicia.

"Me," Oliver said, defiance creeping into his voice. He fought the urge to throw his rag at Marcus' troll face.

"You?" Marcus scoffed. "And what happened to _your_ arm, Wood? Want a repeat performance?"

"A big vicious troll attacked me. That's what happened." Oliver shot back, his Percy-voice fleeing his head entirely. And while Oliver fought his urge, Marcus embraced it.

The rag, soaked with soap and some kind of magical stain remover, hit Oliver square in the face. Drops of water sprang off his face, but most droplets smacked him in the face and his ego.

Marcus lived for people firing back at him, loved it when they fought back against the always-larger male. He was mildly annoyed then because Oliver didn't fire it back at him, nor attack him, nor at the very least, call him a troll. All he did was glare at the opposing captain and slap the rag at Flint's feet. Where was the fire? Who let it sputter out and _die_?

Oliver gritted his teeth, wanting to taste blood so that he could concentrate on something else besides pouncing on Marcus and shredding him in half. Three things stopped him: First, Marcus would just smack him around, again, and Oliver was already in a bloody sling. Second, he could hear someone's heavy footsteps and knew the punishment would be worse than the satisfaction of the crime. Third (and possibly the scariest of all) was the possibility of Percy's reaction.

Marcus glanced around and through the door saw a seedy-looking figure progress down the hall. Ah. Filch tended to make flames sputter and die, as Marcus knew only too well. Marcus also knew too well how angry Filch would become once he saw Oliver working and Marcus lounging. Frankly, he didn't have the brains to deal with excuses today (or any other day).

So he knelt down a few feet away from the fellow captain and began to scrub vigorously at some stupid trophy for some stupid kid. Filch's shadowy form entered the room, returning from Merlin knows what, and settled into a chair. Marcus and Oliver both resented his contast eye on them.

One hour and twenty-four minutes later, they were mercifully given a "Good. See you next time," and then a "That means you can leave," from Filch. They tore out of the room. No one wanted to spend any more time than nessecary down there -- the air would start to get to you after a while.

Marcus watched Oliver stride down the halls, oddly thoughtful. He toyed with the idea of giving him another bruise to add to the collection, but decided against it when he saw it was nearly eight o'clock -- nearly time for his team's practice.

-x-

Oliver, on the other Quidditch-gloved hand, walked into the Gryffindor lockers (he had left his book in there) and saw three things: an unlocked lock to the doors; a white envelope placed on "his" bench; and most importantly, a Chocolate Frog placed on that white envelope.

Now, if there was anything Oliver loved more than Quidditch, his broom, or flying, (forgetting, of course, that those were all pretty much the same thing) it was Chocolate Frogs. Ever since his first piece of heaven at age eight, he'd been hooked. Every year on the Hogwarts Train, he would order a box and split it evenly with Percy-- eighty percent for Oliver, because he needed his strength for Quidditch, and twenty percent for Percy, because no one needed energy to be a bookworm.

His curiousity piqued, Oliver unwrapped it and slipped the card in his robe pocket, not bothering to read it. Who cared about that when you could have the real prize? He nibbled the edges then bit off a leg here, a leg there, until it was all in his now-content stomach. Satsified, he reached for the envelope.

Tearing off the opening, he was pleasantly surpised to find a green-bordered stationery paper inside. It was adorned with a vines stretching and growing all along the edges of the paper, with the occasional thorn ready to poke Oliver. One thorn in particular pointed to a (rather badly-written) poem in the center:

_Your hair is like sand on a beach_

_The only thing warmer is your speech_

_Eyes of gorgeous green emerald shards_

_Remind me of gambling with cards_

_So at the end I have to tell you one thing_

_It is for you that my heart will sing._

_Oliver, I love you._

-x-

The parchment was crumpled, and torn. It hardly seemed important. It looked as if it had been torn off another sheet, folded, shoved into a robe pocket and then was promptly forgotten. Still, something drove Leanne to carefully unfold it. Written on the scrap were six words, scrawled in the handwriting she knew as well as her own: _I took my risk. Where's yours?_

-x-

A/N: Why hello there! Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I've been busy with school and my boyfriend and all that jazz. Thenn ff decided to spazz on me and not let me log in -- then when I did log in, it was all 'yeahhh, sorryy, no submitting chapters for you!' But I love ff anyway. Anywayy! I can tell y'all hate my excuses. Thanks for all the reviews 33 They really helped me get back to this story. Hopefully I'll get more! (:


	4. Chapter Four

**Gambling Hearts Win More Than Money**

-- chapter four --

-- written by: butterfliedd

-- summary: after a rather brutal fist fight, oliver and marcus have landed themselves in detention. three months' worth of it. with each other. and when you add in a secret admirer, aspiring match-makers, and a possesive slytherin... chaos ensues.

-- disclaimer: harry potter, its characters, and the general potterverse all belong to a certain ms. rowling. not me.

-x-

His first thought was 'what'. His second thought was 'misprint'. His third thought was 'of course!'.

Obviously, someone had mixed the lockers up. No one would ever give him a secret admirer note, right? But Fred, and George, they were popular; why wouldn't they be? They had that "adorable red hair" and their "hilarious pranks" and the sort of thing (Oliver still had no idea what it was) that made girls go "OMG. Did you just see how cute he looked?"

It was clear to him now that the mysterious poet had messed up and confused locker three in aisle _two_ (Oliver's) with lockers three and four in aisle _three_ (Fred and George's). _Duh!_ His inner teenage girl voice answered.

So he looked down, to check the possibilities, and had his bubble instantly burst when he read the last line. _Oliver, I love you_ -- was it possible that the secret admirer had misspelled F-R-E-D or G-E-O-R-G-E as O-L-I-V-E-R?

No, unless it was that completely vapid girl in his Transfiguration class. Brooke, was it? She was pretty and blond and had most of the guys in the class wishing to be her partner so they could see, in detail, her mouth sucking on that Sugar Quill. She also had just enough brains to breathe, which left Oliver and Percy rolling their eyes in the corner.

Well, Oliver rolled his eyes because she once said she'd rather get eaten by a hippogriff than ever watch a full game of Quidditch. When reminded that hippogriffs didn't eat people, she said that she had to fix her hair and promptly left.

He glanced down at the sheet and another thought concerning Fred or George came to him. Perhaps -- and this was crazy, but they were nothing if not crazy -- they had given him a secret admirer card, to cheer him up? Oliver grinned at the very thought. The idea of Fred and George, carefully tracing fancy letters and writing him a poem!

Obviously they had noticed his downcast face and shattered arm the last practice and wanted to remedy it. The love his teammates had for him! His heart swelled again, in a very effeminate way. (The only thing they really saw was the sweat pouring off their bodies after a very long, very hard, very tiring practice. The only love they had for their captain had disappeared like the soap down the drain.)

He folded the paper in half and put it back, making a note to thank them for the unnessecary gift later.

-x-

It was one of the hardest practices Marcus had pushed his team to do. Even he could admit it. There was a sheen of sweat covering his muscular body, and the captain who always told the Slytherins to work harder, faster, stronger was aching. It felt good to be hurting. It felt so good, in fact, that he grinned -- a real grin, not one of his grimaces or smirks.

His smile broke, however, when he looked at the clock. If the clock was right (and it always was) then he had exactly six minutes to shower, change, and run like hell down to Filch's office for his next detention.

The shower would have to wait; besides, he could care less what Wood thought of him. Within a matter of minutes, something that had to be a new record, Marcus shoved his broom and his other things into his locker, then sprinted across the grounds and into the detention room.

It was just his luck that this was the one day in the three weeks and four days that Filch and Wood were on time.

-x-

Marcus threw himself into the room, gasping for breath and panted, "Sorry. Iwas justatQuidditchpracticeandthen--" He paused for a well-needed breath, then continued, "--Adriantook ages intheshowersoIcouldn'ttakeonebutnowI'mhere. I'm notlate, right?" He glanced up, the first time he had even looked at anything but the tiled ground.

He couldn't be late. Filch had told them time after time that being late counted as being absent, and Marcus knew too well the punishment for skipping a detention.

Filch scowled and took a hour-long second to answer. "No. Don't do it again." He kept his conversations with them short and painless, like ripping off a bandaid. Clearly, he thought he had better things to do.

"Yeah, okay," Marcus nodded. He had just run at least a half-mile and could speak in only short sentences.

"Here are Snape's cauldrons. His third year class ruined them and it's your job to fix them. I want polished and gleaming. And, as always, no magic." Filch surveyed the two: Oliver was barely listening, but probably wouldn't dare to take out his wand. And even after six years of Hogwarts, Marcus had yet to learn a single cleaning spell.

There was nothing to worry about. Filch left in a flurry of inky black robes, and the two captains looked at the endless task ahead.

The cauldrons were slathered in some kind of slimy substance; Oliver reached out tentatively and grimaced when he saw the thick goo that covered nearly the entire surface. It was green in most of them, but in one particular cauldron it had turned pink. He briefly wondered if Neville, Harry's friend that often disturbed their practices, had handled that one.

Meanwhile, Marcus scowled. They were _disgusting_, and to make it worse, they'd take ages to clean. He did not want to spend an hour or three on cleaning slimy cauldrons. Snape could do his own damn cleaning, as far as Marcus was concerned. The potion master had had enough experience with greasy things, if his hair was any indication.

"Well," Oliver started, breaking the silence, "We should get started."

-x-

Oliver rolled his green eyes. There was no way he was cleaning this mess. Snape could wash his own cauldrons with his own bloody toothbrush. Normally, he'd clean and shut up about it, but tonight he was supposed to study with Katie. She had been acting weird lately and tonight was hopefully the night to discover why.

"Do you really want to spend an hour or two down here?"

Marcus paused, and the cogs in his mind spun around like a downward spiral. "No." He was rather suspicious, it seemed.

"Neither do I." Oliver whipped out his wand, and with a few spells, the cauldrons were gleaming like new. (Well, they weren't gleaming. And they didn't look new. But they did look much better than before.) He paused, waiting for gratitude or at least some recognition.

But Marcus only grunted, and stood up to go walk out.

"Wait!" Oliver called.

"What?" Marcus snarled. His team wasn't practicing; they were slacking off, as usual, and might as well just roll over and say "Yes, Gryffindor, beat us. Throw your Quaffle right there, please." Oliver had just given him an extra hour to beat them into shape; Marcus was not just going to pass that up. Surely Oliver, a fellow captain, realized how valuable an open pitch was.

"You can't just walk out. Filch will know that we used magic if we walk out now. We've only been in here for ten minutes." Oliver spoke as if this was common knowledge. He wanted to add a "Duh!" but accurately thought that Marcus would punch him.

Marcus paused for a second and thought; then, he growled. "Fine. I'm passing up practice for this. You owe me, Wood." With that, he promptly sat down in a chair, clearly uninterested in any of this.

"All the practice in the world couldn't help you."

"Do you want me to beat you bloody?"

Oliver bit his lip at this, keeping quiet, and decided instead to think. Merlin knew he hadn't thought in a long time.

He chanced a peek at Marcus and saw a strong square jaw, then looked up to gaze into those smoldering dark eyes. Oliver paused. He wasn't sure what exactly was causing these unnatural thoughts, but Marcus was -- well, hot. He cringed at the very thought and quickly shut his brain down.

Marcus Flint was not "hot". Marcus Flint would never be hot. Except, he pondered, when Marcus had that slick sheen of sweat and moaned ever-so-softly, one could believe that maybe Marcus could seem attractive, at best.

He bit his lip, again, when Marcus glared at him. Oliver nearly missed the words he was saying.

"... looking at me."

"What?"

"I said, stop fucking looking at me," Marcus snarled, crossing his arms across his burly chest.

"I wasn't looking at you," Oliver shot back hotly. "There's a crack on the ceiling right above you. I was waiting to see if it would fall on you. Even then, it probably wouldn't crack your thick head."

Marcus was rather good-looking, Oliver mused, until he opened his mouth.

Marcus grunted. "Better my thick head then your skinny body."

"At least I don't run over people. I'm not the one that clears an entire corridor whenever I walk through. Everyone scurries out when you come through 'cause they're afraid you'll stomp on them."

"Not my fault that none of you have grown since you got here."

"It's not my fault that you're some freak that's eight feet tall and three feet wide!" Oliver snapped, suddenly angry. Leave it to Marcus-Freakin'-Flint to go from "shaggable" to "punchable" in a matter of seconds.

"Just because you're so small--"

"I am not!" Oliver snarled. He was five eleven, for Merlin's sake! That wasn't small at all, unless you compared his five eleven to Marcus's six three (at _least_).

"I have no idea why they even let you on the team in the first place. Obviously, you're trying to bring back a new pipsqueak era. First Katie, now Harry?" Marcus sneered.

"Do _not_ make fun of Katie. She's my best friend."

"Katie's a complete bitch and you call her your best friend?"

He wasn't sure how it happened. One minute, they were arguing about yet another idiotic topic, and the next minute, Oliver had punched him. Marcus remembered vaguely that he was punched by the arm he had broken. He wondered when Oliver got his cast/sling/whatever off.

Then he threw a harder punch back, right in the Gryffindor's stomach. Their wands rested in their robes pocket, taking a well-needed nap. There was another flurry of fists, much like the one that landed them in this predicament, until Oliver somehow ended up on top of him.

Marcus snarled, repeatedly, much like a cat that has been spritzed with water. His wrists were held down by Oliver's large hands, and just his luck -- his feet were trapped under a desk, so there was no chance of kicking him off. To top it all off, Oliver was sitting on his waist. He didn't look as if he was going to move. Marcus was officially pinned.

No one ever pinned him down. For one thing, they couldn't; no one was ever strong enough. Adrian had tried plenty of times but always ended up on the bottom. For another thing, they wouldn't, because Marcus would make them wish a thousand times that they hadn't.

It was a minute or two later that Marcus heard words through his rage.

"Take it back." Oliver said clearly. There was a edge of anger in his voice. He sounded strange, though, and he certainly felt strange on top of Flint.

"Why is this so important?" Marcus snapped. "Merlin. Have you fallen for her?" He sneered, as if love was something to scoff at. "Do you fancy her?" There was an edge of _something_ in his voice -- if Oliver didn't know better, he'd say it was jealousy. But of course it wasn't.

"No! Of course not," Oliver snapped back. There was something directly under the surface that was bubbling; he was sure he didn't fancy Katie. Positive.

What was it, then? Who had he fallen for?

"You do, don't you? Hah." Marcus' voice was harsh as he smirked.

"I don't." Oliver let him go suddenly and jumped off. It was hot in there, burning, and although he smacked his shoulder against a desk he felt nothing. "Merlin, I don't."

Marcus said nothing. Oliver ran.

Filch didn't even notice the Gryffindor running down the halls, nor the Slytherin who stood in the door, watching. And even if he had noticed them leave a mere half-hour after beginning, even Filch would've realized the importance of letting the two think.

-x-

"And then he was all 'you fancy Katie', but I don't and then I punched him and he punched me and..."

Percy nodded. He had the ability to read his book and listen to his best friend attentively at the same time -- at least, he had the ability to appear like it.

"He's just so infuriating!" And with that, Oliver fell back onto his bed with a loud poof! "It's like... it's like... I don't know!" He cried.

Percy nodded, again, and looked over Oliver. There were several small bruises all over his lean body. One, right above Oliver's elbow, almost looked like an M.

Oliver continued, clearly oblivious to Percy's lack of replies. "So then I ended up on top of him, aye? And--"

"Oliver?" Percy asked politely.

"Aye?"

"Do you realize you've been talking about Marcus for..." Percy paused and checked his watch, "one hour and thirteen minutes?"

"What? No, I haven't. I talked about other stuff..." He trailed off, becoming warmer as the seconds passed. "Like... I talked about detention, and Katie, and all that."

"You've said 'Marcus' or 'Flint' one hundred and fifty-three times."

Oliver flushed. Marcus, or even the mention of him, tended to make him do that. "I have not!"

"Now you're not using contractions. Liars do that when they want people to believe them, you know."

Oliver stammered unintelligebly for a few seconds, then finally went up into a sitting position and crossed his arms defiantly. "Shut up."

Percy grinned. "I'm kidding, Oliver. I know you don't fancy that." He spoke as if "that" was the pile of dirty robes in the corner, something that had to be cleaned before one could even give it a proper pronoun like "he".

Biting his bottom lip, Oliver nodded. "So how do you think you did on the Transfiguration exam?"

If there was anything that could get Percy off a hot topic, it was exams. "I don't know. Number thirteen was difficult. I couldn't remember..."

Oliver rolled into a ball and promptly fell asleep.

-x-

"Merlin! Wood was such a bloody freak today!" Marcus stormed. He prowled around in a circle, looking very much like a Rottweiler chasing its own tail, especially when he growled out sentences of profanities. "He was such a ponce. I said one bloody thing about his bloody girlfriend --"

"Wood has a girlfriend? Hah!" Adrian said, glancing up from his bed. He was splayed across it, reading a battered copy of a Quidditch magazine. The cover displayed a scantily clad witch holding a broom. "Is she a gorrilla? Is she blind?"

"It's Katie." Marcus said tersely, unsure of the reason for the anger he felt now.

"Katie? Katie Bell?" Adrian paused. "Damn. She's pretty hot. How did he land her?"

"I don't know. But then I said she was a bitch--"

"Too true!"

"And he fucking pounced on me! He was all 'Take it back, take it back' and finally I kicked him off me, then he ran."

"So that's how many bruises you gave him, now?"

"Too many." Marcus stopped his pacing for a second, then sat on the chair. He looked almost thoughtful. "There's just something about him, you know? And it just sets me off like a bomb."

-x-

A/N: Another chapter! (: I've had quite a lot of drama in my life lately, which is why these chapters are taking a while to type up. Anyway! Read and review, as always, and remember that I loveth thou! (:


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